


The Ghost Touch

by CaptainOfShips



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOfShips/pseuds/CaptainOfShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The light touch of hands wrapped around his waist. Faint, light hands. Imaginary hands. Sherlock's hands."</p>
<p>Basically John breaks down at Sherlocks grave, to put it lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost Touch

**Author's Note:**

> When it says "His, him, he" it's talking about John unless said otherwise. I just wanted to make sure you knew since I didn't specify it. If you get confused... I'm sorry.

The light touch of hands wrapped around his waist. Faint, light hands. Imaginary hands.

Sherlock's hands.

The feeling he'd been dying to feel since he met the man. The man that had changed his life completely.

The man that had left him suddenly and unexpectedly as he came in.

When his eyes were closed, he felt Sherlock there. His face. His body. His smell. His sea-foamy green eyes. His sharp, prominent cheek bones. His long, think neck, always covered by a scarf. His tall, thin frame, almost always covered by a black overcoat. His beautiful fingers that always produced wonderful music from the violin that now just produced dust.

It was all there behind his eyelids.

A fear controlled him for years now. The fear that when he'd open his eyes, every sight and sound and touch and feeling; everything of Sherlock would be gone, leaving him to be alone once more.

It amazed him how one touch, one light ghostly touch brought back feelings of him. Of the man he missed too much.

Eventually, he slowly opened his eyes, glancing down at the thing that proved everything was real. That he wasn't living in a dream, and would wake up with his flatmate standing by his side, ready to drag him along on another adventure.

The thing written in stone.

"Sherlock Holmes," it read. The two words that burned constantly in his mind. The two words that changed his life to the point of no return.

Even with his eyes open, he still felt the ghost touch around him. He didn't want to move. He didn't even want to breath of fear that the feeling would be gone. He needed the feeling more than anything.

Of course, the only thing he needed more was for this touch to be real. For the detective to be real once more. For his reasons to live exist outside the back of his eyelids.

When he closed his eyes again, he saw Sherlock as an angel. Would Sherlock really be an angel? The detective had said himself that he didn't believe in heaven.

_People don't really go to heaven. They're taken to a special room and burned._

But, he couldn't think anything less of his long gone friend. In his mind, the detective had long, glorious silky black wings. Ones that complemented his raven black curls and thin frame perfectly.

God, Sherlock was still so gorgeous, even as just an image.

An image of the angel wrapped tightly around him, giving him that ghostly touch that he needed too much, flashed through his mind. It made him feel happy, almost warm on the inside. It made him forget about the tears that were now streaming down his face.

It was when the angel in his mind turned his head to kiss him ever so slightly on the lips, that it became too much for him.

Falling to his knees, every feeling, every image, everything was lost, leaving him alone once more

"Come back!" He cried weakly, clawing at the dirt. Reaching for him, longing to feel him, to feel the dead man, "Don't be dead you stupid git."

Tears now fell like rain landing heavily on the dirt. There was a mind of pain spreading through this body. A pain of regret and denial and the knowing that he could have prevented all of this if he just stopped and observed.

The tears continued to fall and the pain continued to rip through painfully until the whole world went black.

\----------

"John?"

Johns eyes snapped open. Where was he?

Dirt. There was wet dirt beneath him. But the sky. It was clear and sunny, barely a cloud in the sky. Had it rained?

Then he remember tears. The god awful pain. The touch. The images. God, he felt like he was going to be sick.

"John are you okay?"

There was a voice. Sherlock's voice? No, of course not. How could it be. Not female, so not Mrs. Hudson or Molly. Mycroft? No why would Mycroft care.

Lestrade came into his field of vision," I've been trying to contact you for hours, mate..."

Hours? How long had he been out here?

"... You weren't responding, and I became worried."

John tried to move but everything ached, so he remained sprawled out across the grave, staring at the sky.

He could feel the dead mans body rotting six feet beneath him. This was the closest he could get to Sherlock now. He didn't want to move.

Eventually the time passed and the sky grew dark. The air became chilled making John shiver. He rose slowly to his feet, pulling out his phone to check the time.

Only 7:30 pm? When did he arrive? Was it even the same day? He didn't care.

There were a few texts from Lestrade, the most recent one saying he got called away for a case, and would check back up on him later.

John didn't bother glancing down at the tombstone again, or even the spot he laid, knowing he'd have another break down. He simply just turned, unexpectedly running into a person behind him.

"Sorry," John muttered, keeping his head down.

Walking past, the person simple said, "Sherlock Holmes, eh." A mans voice. Deep, but not a voice he recognized.

Who was this man speaking to him? Saying the two words that were slowly killing him. Could the man see how John was feeling? Couldn't he just observe?

John just nodded as the man spoke again, "Did you know him?"

Head still down, back still turned, he muttered back, "Did anyone truly know Sherlock Holmes?" Then walked away before even glancing back at the man.

The man huffed in agreement as he watched the broken army walk away. Turning back to the grave, he ran his fingers through his raven black curls, "Oh John. What have I done to you."

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: http://svaggity-svat-i-can-do-zat.tumblr.com/  
> Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
